Martin stared. “You did what?”
“I dug up de Soulis,” Eleanor admitted.
They sat in the Dryfe Arms with the last rain of a passing squall pattering against the window and the barman hovering to listen to their conversation. By now, the villagers were accustomed to seeing Eleanor and Thomas, and although they did not speak, nor did they stare. Only Wally Nixon glared at them with his red hat thrust to the back of his head.
“You dug him up?” Martin repeated. “Dear God, why?” He shook his head. “No, never mind why. It doesn’t matter. Bury him again, now, this very minute. You can’t allow such evil to see daylight or moonlight, God help us.”
“It’s all right,” Eleanor said. “He’s dead.”
“That sort of creature can avoid death,” Martin said cryptically and added. “I’d like to know why you thi
